


Empty Promises

by thesadchicken



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: The night before the events at the Reichenbach falls, Watson speaks to Holmes.This is a short story about loss, memories and the way we perceive the ones we love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed work. Please feel free to point out any typos or mistakes.

[ ~ + ~ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqoANESQ4cQ&t=14s)

Warmth from the fireplace. A female voice, low and concerned. The smell of burning wood and fresh bread. Mycroft’s cottage. Switzerland. And then flashes of memory start drowning his mind: his own heavy breathing, his heart pounding in his ears, the train, the sound of a bullet, Sherlock Holmes’ unbreathing body under his palms, _I know you can hear me you bastard_.

John Watson closes his eyes. “I will be back in a minute,” he mutters. He does not wait for an answer; he leaves Simza and Mycroft at the table. They need not know where he’s going.

They don’t ask any questions. He exits the sitting-room in silence.

Down the hallway is a smaller chamber. Watson slowly pushes the door open and takes a careful step inside. It is dark and damp and cold, empty except for an old armchair pushed against the wall. Watson blinks in the darkness, batting his eyelids at the dim evening light filtering through a single square-shaped window. Looking out into the snowy wilderness stands Holmes, his silhouette tall and thin and sinewy. His left hand is delicately folded behind his back while his right hand clutches a fuming pipe.

“Watson,” he says, “do come in.”

There are no curtains on the window and the floors are veiled with dust. Holmes’ footprints shine, clean-cut against the wood, leading up to the window from where he has apparently not moved. Watson closes the door behind him and stands still in the middle of the room. Holmes has his back to him, and his silhouette is sharply outlined against the whiteness of the sky peaking through the window.

“What a lovely thing a snowflake is,” Holmes’ words slice the air between them, and Watson flinches at the weariness in his friend’s voice.

Silence. Remembrances of countless snowy evenings spent together. Watson closes his eyes once more, and beneath his eyelids there is an image so soft and safe it fills his head with music. A violin moaning. A few plucked strings. Holmes humming. Snowflakes over Baker Street. A blanket wrapped over his shoulders. Keen eyes meeting his, _perhaps you’d care to join me for dinner tonight?_

A slight rustling of cloth compels Watson to open his eyes. Holmes has rested his shoulder against the wall, but he is still facing the window. “As I have no doubt said before, you have a grand gift for silence, dearest,” he says, lightheartedly.

Watson clears his throat. “It’s freezing in here. You should join us by the fireplace.”

“Mm,” Holmes nods, slowly bringing his pipe to his lips. He does not move.

Watson rubs his palm over his thigh. His mouth is brimming with words that he refuses to utter. It drives him mad, the incessant ebb and flow of thoughts filling his mind. There is, however, one prominent feeling amongst all this inner turmoil. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Holmes’s posture stiffens. Smoke slips out of his mouth in puffs of mist. Watson considers the boldness of his words, but he licks his chapped lips and continues all the same, “We have encountered such dangers before, and I am well aware of the risks – it’s been a great many years since I moved to Baker Street, after all. But this,” he pauses, takes a deep breath, “this is different.”

“How so?” Holmes’ voice is unnervingly calm. Watson wishes he could see the man’s face.

“It was something you said, back in London – that you would give your life to see Moriarty’s demise.” A gush of wind makes its way through the slit underneath the window. Watson shudders. “When you were lying unmoving on the train, I feared the worst. You are always so careful, Holmes, but this time I know there are no limits. You will stop at nothing; not even death.”

The pipe is once more lifted to Holmes’ mouth. Watson watches as clouds of smoke curl in the air. He waits for his friend to say something, but the detective is silent.

“And yet I trust you,” Watson whispers, “I have complete and utter faith in you. You needn’t promise me anything.”

Silence once more. Watson sighs and turns to leave the room when Holmes speaks. “Your faith is misplaced.” His tone is dry, factual.

Anger wells up in Watson’s chest. “That is my judgment to make,” he snaps. Then he bites his lower lip and shakes his head. There is no use getting angry. “Come now, join us by the fire,” he adds softly.

“I will. In a few minutes,” Holmes answers.

Watson leaves him to his brooding. He said what he’d wanted to say. Now he finds that he is in great need of nourishment and perhaps even a drink. A peaceful moment before the storm.

~

The water takes Sherlock Holmes away. Over the edge they go, both him and Moriarty, down into the depths of the Reichenbach falls. Watson sees himself plunging after them, although his feet are firmly stuck to the ground. The madness that threatens to overwhelm him is held at bay by the numbness in every fiber of his being. He stares blankly at the nothingness down below. He knows nothing. He sees nothing. He feels nothing.  For a brief instant, he has ceased to exist.

When he comes to his senses, the world is swirling around him. He slips, he collapses, he scratches the air in search of something to hold onto, he feels the cold hard ground pressing against his cheek, he cries, he bellows in anger, in pain, in frustration. People are surrounding him, touching him, asking him questions. He ignores them and allows himself to drown in the emptiness that has suddenly engulfed him.

And then he closes his mouth and eyes and ears and he is alone, completely. In that moment, no matter what he tells himself, he feels ashamed. Holmes’ warned him. No promises. Trust is a dangerous thing. _Surely there had to be other ways_ , his mind rebels. No. He knows better. There are no other ways. Even now John Watson still believes in Sherlock Holmes. He believes that whatever was done had to be.

It was foolish of him to have expected Holmes to spare him. _This is about the case_ , he tells himself. _It was never about me, nor was anything he ever did_. Holmes made no promises.

And yet back in Baker Street, in the small hours of the morning, when he played his violin and when it moaned in such mournful tones under his fingers… in those elusive memories, it sounded like he was playing for Watson alone.


End file.
